Disappearing Act
by AnimeKeepsMeSane
Summary: John's life was normal. Wife, son, job. Until one call changes everything. And one night, Sherlock Holmes walks back into his life. Can they find Mary's killer, and maybe themselves, before time runs out? M for graphic nature and eventual Johnlock.
1. Prolouge

**Disappearing Act**

**I usually don't like these kinds of fics and mangas. Like, at all. Ever. But for some reason I want to do this for this lovely little universe. Maybe because Sherlock would totally do this, even if we'd all hate him for it.**

**Sherlock and all brilliantly stupid characters © BBC, the Moff, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**Jaimey S. Watson © Me**

John Watson couldn't believe it. No, seriously, he couldn't fucking believe it. He didn't want to. He couldn't. The information wasn't allowed in his brain. As John pushed the speedometer higher the only thought on his mind was for his son James S. Watson. After skidding into the driveway of his Kent home, John was out of his car without even turning the engine off. Jaimey stood by the door, watching with his wide blue eyes as Detective Inspectors and uniform cops rushed in and out of the house. He wasn't crying, but as John scooped him into his arms he saw that Jaimey's eyes were red rimmed. For a seven year old, he was very adept at knowing what was going on around him and he knew far more than he let on.

Jaimey dropped his head onto his dad's shoulder and hid his face in the rough jean of the jacket as John stepped over the threshold to look for the DI in charge. Inspector Hopkins was writing something in his notes in the front parlor but looked up when John sidled over to him.

"Ah, Mr. Watson." He said, fixing his face into a mask of grief. Or maybe it was real and it was just that nothing was going to seem real to John for a while. He knew loss could do that to a person.

"What happened?" John asked quietly, hoping Jaimey was too out of it to understand what he was saying.

"As far as we can tell, your wife died sometime early this evening. Your sister called round about six or so and found her dead. I'm sorry." The detective clapped him briefly on the shoulder not being used as a pillow in what he probably thought was a comforting manner.

"How?" The question was said barely above a whisper but the detective heard it just the same.

"We don't know that yet. We've got our medical examiner in there but… Well, it's a ghastly sight and there probably won't be anything conclusive until we get the body back to the morgue…" the detective's words trailed off but John barely noticed.

"May I see the crime scene?" He asked.

"Well, sir, like I said, very nasty business indeed and… Well, I'm sure you wouldn't like to see that. Best to remember your wife at her best not-"

"I was in Afghanistan for four tours and I worked with Sherlock Holmes for almost two years. Ghastly scenes are not new to me, no matter how long ago that was. And if there's anything I learned from Sherlock, it's that another pair of eyes can often help." John's voice was monotone and dead, not as an attempt to keep his emotions in check, but because he was speaking of Sherlock Holmes. It had been eight years since Holmes's death and still that was the only way John could stand to talk about the Consulting Detective.

Hopkins hesitated a moment, turning over the outcome a refusal would bring before sighing. "Alright. You can have a few minutes so long as you don't touch anything. You might want to-"

But John was already turning away and shifting Jaimey so he could set him down on the couch next to a surprisingly-sober-for-once Harriett. Jaimey opened his eyes and blinked blearily at his father. John knelt down in front of him and took the small boy's hands. "Jaimey, I want you to stay here with Aunty Harry, okay? I'll be back in a minute and then I'll put you to bed, alright?" Jaimey nodded and nestled into his aunt's side. Harry pulled him into a comforting hug and rubbed his back. The Watson siblings exchanged a glance before John followed Detective Hopkins out of the room.

When the detective had said messy, he'd meant messy. John had seen a lot of blood, he was a doctor it was more or less a requirement for the job, but this was overkill. There's no way this is all Mary's, John thought after the initial shock. Mary had been found in the dining room, probably with dinner for her, Harry, and Jaimey ready. The whole room was scarlet. The walls had been splattered with blood and the carpet had taken on a brilliant scarlet color as it soaked in the dark liquid. There was blood splashed down the table and nonsense patterns drawn in it. The only spot not crimson was a single chair and the outlines of four place settings.

The bag containing Mary was being zipped up and wheeled out on a gurney. A twinge passed through John as her face was obscured by the dark plastic. Mary's throat had been cut. He didn't want to believe she was gone, but the proof was there. The proof was always there, something he'd learned through the years with Sherlock. No. No he was not thinking about that now. Not thinking about…him. Damn, now he was thinking about him.

Without a word, John turned back around in the doorway and strode back into the living room. He picked Jaimey, who was sleeping safe and sound tucked under his aunt's arm, up gently and carried him up the stairs. But he didn't go into Jaimey's room. The boy's mother had just died and if there was one thing John Watson knew, it was nightmares inspired by tragedy. Jaimey would need the comfort of his parent's wide bed. John was silent as he put on his pajamas. They were two floors up from the crime scene and he knew how the police worked. They'd clear out when they were done and Harry would leave with them. And he was the grieving husband with a small son to look after. No one would question it. Then, as he crawled into bed and pulled Jaimey closer, John felt the tears held in since that horrible phone call finally fall.

XXX

Months passed. Jaimey started the second grade without his mother and still had no friends four months in. John was worried but what could he do? Jaimey would figure it out, though he was beginning to act more and more like what John imagined his middle-name-sake was like in school every day. He picked up Jaimey after school and after a while it was almost normal. Almost normal until one day rolled around that changed it all.

That was dramatic, wasn't it?

John had just settled Jaimey into bed and was settleing down to have one last cuppa before bed and to read the paper when a knock came at the door. John glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It was almost 8, far to late for any visitors or deliveries. None the less, John stood and went to answer the door.

As the green door swung open, John swore he felt the floor drop from under him. A far too familiar pair of icy blue eyes peered out from under a forelock of thick, curling black hair. A long nose, pink at the tip from the cold, over cupid-bow lips and high cheekbones that John thought he'd never see move again. The lips parted to say something, but were interrupted by John falling backwards into the foyer.

"John!" Sherlock called, stepping over the threshold to help his friend.

John was slumped against the wall, holding himself up by clutching at the wallpaper. He squeezed his eyes shut. "No. No, no, no, this is _not_ happening to me. Nope. Not happening."

"John?" Sherlock was flabbergasted. What was John going on about? This was not at all how Sherlock had envisioned their reunion.

"You are not here." John was chanting over and over again, as though it were a mantra. "You are dead Sherlock. You are never coming back." John's eyes flicked open again and Sherlock could see his eyes were misted over with unshed tears. John was looking anywhere other than at his ex-flatmate. "I've cracked." John declared. "I've cracked and this is just a latent side effect of Mary's death. I'm going to be getting a visit from all the people I've lost over the years. First you," Speaking at Sherlock but still refusing to look at him, "Next all the men I lost in Afghanistan, then my parents, that mate from school that died in an accident, before I slowly spin off into madness. Oh god, how could I do this to Jaimey? First he loses his mother, now his father's gone batty…"

Sherlock realized John was ranting and knew just how to pull him out of it. He moved closer to the ex Army doctor and put his hands on either side of John's face, leaning down enough to look John directly in the eye. "John, look at me." Sherlock intoned in his deep voice. "Look. At. Me."

Slowly, so slowly, John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's. Sky met ice and John knew he wouldn't be looking away any time soon. "Do I look dead?" Sherlock asked quietly. John shook his head. "Do I feel dead?" The warmth that radiated from Sherlock's hands, bare despite the cold winter outside and John wondered later if Sherlock had lost his gloves again, crept to every centimeter of John's body. And again, John shook his head. "Do you still think I'm dead?" Whispered quietly but heard nonetheless. What other answer could John give?

John opened his mouth, determined to answer Sherlock, when a small voice sliced through the little bubble that had formed around the doctor and the detective.

"Daddy?"

John's head whipped around and Sherlock pulled away, seemingly surprised to see the small boy standing on the staircase.

"Jaimey!" John exclaimed. His son should have been in bed, and now he had caught John in what could have been a compromising position. He walked over and picked up the small boy. "What are you doing up?" he asked.

Jaimey twisted around in his father's arms to stare once more at Sherlock. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably under the small boy's scrutiny, so sharp for a seven year old. After a moment of careful examination, Jaimey turned back to his dad.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes?" He asked bluntly.

John was a bit taken back but didn't hesitate as he answered his son. "Yes Jaimey, that is Sherlock Holmes."

Jaimey smiled widely, showing the small gap between his front two teeth. "Good. I think you should offer him the guest room and let him help." He spoke with diction clearer than most children twice his age. That said, Jaimey wiggled out of his father's arms and padded back up the stairs. Pausing half way up, he turned back to Sherlock and John. "Welcome back Sherlock." He said before continuing back up to his room.

"Smart boy." Sherlock muttered. He turned back to John, who was memorizing the grain of the wood on the stairs.

They stood there for a tense minute before John spoke. "So you've been alive this whole time?" Asked barely above a whisper but still heard.

"Yes."

"And you never thought to tell me? Just wanted to leave me thinking you were dead? Didn't even think about how I felt right?" The anger was, rightfully, creeping into his voice.

"No, John that's not—"

But John wasn't listening. "I cried, you know? For months, years even, all I wanted was for you to walk back through the door and order me up and down to the TESCO to get milk, or tell me about some knew murder that was stumping all the morons down at Scotland Yard. I even started missing finding you shooting at the walls! It took me two and a half years to leave Baker Street, but I moved on. I left and I never looked back. In case you haven't noticed, I got married, I have a son, and I have a life here! But now you walk back into my life and all I want is to go back and start solving mysteries with you again! Why do you do this to me Sherlock? Why?" Somewhere in his wild rants, John started crying. He slumped against the banister and sobbed.

Sherlock was at a loss; he didn't know what to do. He'd never had to comfort anyone before. He supposed this was part of letting someone in. So he moved to sit next to John and put an awkward arm around John's shoulders. This seemed effective as the other man started crying into his trench coat.

"I'm sorry John…" Sherlock murmured quietly. "But I had to. You had a sniper pointed at your head. If I hadn't done what I'd done…" Sherlock's voice broke and he took a deep breath. "And then I had to leave, to destroy Moriarty's network. When that was done, I wanted to come back, I really did! But I wanted you to move on too. I wanted you to have a chance at a normal life…" What he didn't add was that it looked like John had succeeded, until recently, and that it had killed him when he found out.

John stopped crying, though there were still tear trails on his cheeks, and looked up at Sherlock. "Then why are you here now?" he asked.

"Because I want to help. I want to help you find," Sherlock hesitated. He couldn't bring himself to say Mary's name, "your wife's killer. Let me help, and then I promise, I'll leave. I'll leave forever and you'll never have to see my face again." Sherlock's heart was breaking as he said this, but he knew that it was what was best. John deserved the normal life that Sherlock had almost stolen from him.

But as John looked at Sherlock, a fiery determination came back into his eyes. A determination neither had realized was missing from John's eyes, but that was obvious now that it was back. The sadness was melting, almost gone now, and John could feel his heart beating in his chest for the first time in what felt like years. Sherlock was back and if John had his way, Sherlock would always be there.

"You are never leaving me again."


	2. Chapter 1

**Disappearing Act 2**

John leaned back against the counter and sipped his tea. It was seven in the morning and he was the only one awake in the house. Jaimey would be down soon and Sherlock shortly after. He knew both of them well enough to know that. Straightening, John removed the lid of the frying pan in front of him and flipped the three eggs he was frying. As John set the lid down, he heard the soft pad of his son's feet in the hallway. Right on time.

John looked up and smiled as Jaimey walked into the kitchen, his favorite stuffed tiger clutched under his blue dinosaur pajama clad arm, and climbed into a chair at the island.

"Good morning Dad." Jaimey said, stifling a yawn.

John's smile widened. "Good morning Jaimey."

John was sliding slices of bacon into the pan when Sherlock emerged. The detective was still in his PJs. He'd had a small bag with him last night, about the same size as the one from their fist case John's brain had thought before he could stop it, and John had directed him to the spare bedroom. Now, seeing Sherlock in the same ratty old PJs he'd probably had since he was a teenager and, dear god, the blue dressing gown, John felt himself falling back to another lifetime.

John shook his head clearing away his thoughts of London and Baker Street. Instead, he chose to greet Sherlock. "Good morning Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted and blinked blearily at him. John figured that would be it, as it often had been, but was surprised when Sherlock returned the sentiment. "Morning John."

Jaimey looked between his father and Sherlock before rolling his eyes and sipping his tea. "You really should contact your brother Mr. Holmes. He's worried about you know you've dropped off his radar." Jaimey said simply.

Both John and Sherlock stared at the small boy. Then, John shook his head and took the bacon off heat. "He gets more and more like his namesake everyday." He muttered. Sherlock looked from son to father and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, John plopped a plate in front of him. "Eat. Ad I don't care if you aren't hungry or whatever. We have a long day ahead of us and you are eating." Sherlock would have argued, but the look in John's eyes silenced him. It was a look honed from years of dealing with a small child and it was not a look one contended with.

XXX

John and Sherlock stood by the door waiting for Jaimey to come down stairs. They were taking him to school before driving into London, where Sherlock would reveal to their old colleagues/friends at Scotland Yard that he wasn't dead, they would get the files on Mary Watson's death, and Sherlock would explain over lunch at Angelo's just where he'd been over the past nine years.

Sherlock turned to John. "Earlier," he began and John turned to look at him, "Earlier you said Jaimey was becoming more like his namesake every day. What did you mean by that?" Sherlock asked.

John's eyebrows rose. "You haven't figured it out yet?" Disbelief was clear in his voice.

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "John…"

John smiled and turned to look up the stairs again. "James S. Watson. Jaimey _Sherlock _Watson."

Sherlock was speechless, which didn't often happen. Then, he felt his heart swell. His friend, if Sherlock still deserved to call him that, was sentimental. And Sherlock felt honored.

He opened his mouth to say something but Jaimey clomped down the stairs then. Jaimey was the spitting image of John, right down to the smattering of freckles over his pudgy nose. Except for his hair. Oh, it was dirty blond, like John's, but curly, very curly. Neither Mary nor John had curly in their families, but Jaimey did nonetheless. Just like Sherlock. You couldn't see the curls this morning however: because they were hidden under an old deerstalker cap; an all too familiar deerstalker cap.

"Where did you get that?" John asked after a frozen moment.

Jaimey was positively beaming. "I found it a few months ago in an old box." Jaimey turned his brilliant smile on Sherlock. "Hatman, when can I have my own Robin?"

John also turned his attention Sherlock, only slightly worried about what the taller man might say. But Sherlock already had an idea what to say. He kneeled down to Jaimey's level. "Well Jaimey, you have to be at least twelve before you can find a Robin. But you have to make sure you have the right one. You have to find a person you can trust inexplicably."

Jaimey was chewing on the sleeve of his jacket. "So I have to wit five years and find a person I can trust above all others?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. Jaimey's smile widened. "I can do that."

He grabbed Sherlock and John's hands and practically pulled them throughthe door.

After they dropped Jaimey off at Wincheap Foundation Primary, John pulled the car onto the A2050. It would take a little under an hour and a half to get to London, Sherlock and John drove for a short while in tense silence.

"Mycroft and Lestrade got married." John said to break the awkwardness.

Sherlock nodded. "I know. I was there."

John nodded and tried to ignore the sting of tears behind his eyes. Of course Sherlock had been there. Why would he miss his brother's wedding but not bother to tell John he was still alive. "Were you that weird old man that kept trying to chat me up?" he asked, to mask his sadness.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I saw you but I didn't approach you."

"Why?"

"Because you know me too well. You would have seen straight through my disguise,"

Both were silent as each wondered just what that meant to the other.

Sherlock had something else on his mind. "How did Jaimey know about Hat-man and Robin?"

John chuckled a little. "He's been hearing stories about our adventures almost since he could talk."

Sherlock was very surprised to hear this. "How?"

John shook his head indulgently. "The kid knew how to work a computer before Kindergarten. He found the blog almost right off. The first picture he clicked on was of you in the hat. I didn't think I still had the actual cap anymore thought…" John's voice trailed off. He seemed lost in thought for a moment before remembering he was telling a story. "Even then, I didn't tell him about us right off. A little while later, however, Jaimey wanted to know what his middle name was. His mother refused to tell him and sent him my way. Afterwards, he demanded to know how we met. So I told him. He demands a case almost every night now. Besides Harry Potter, you're his favorite bedtime hero."

Sherlock was flabbergasted. "You told him about A Study in Pink? About all our cases?"

"Well, I left out some of the gorier ones. I'm saving them for when he's older. Besides, he figured out It was a cabbie before you did."

John definitely didn't imagine the slight pink ting of embarrassment that passed over his friend's features. "And just how did he do that, exactly?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

John shrugged, taking great joy out of his son's one-upping of Sherlock. "No idea. All I know is that as soon as I quoted your tirade about hunting in the middle of the crowd, he sat bolt upright in bed and shouted; "It was a cabbie!" Then he flopped back down and told me to finish the story because he wanted you to tell him if he was right."

Sherlock slumped in his seat, pouting over being outsmarted by a child. "Childhood cleverness, that's all it is." He muttered.

John glanced at Sherlock. "I'm sorry, what?" he asked.

"Oh, every child is smarter than the adults in their life." Sherlock explained, waving his hand dismissively. "Hardly anyone ever realizes it though because all the adults think young equals stupid because they lack life experience. I understand the importance of experience but it isn't right not to listen to someone's ideas simply because they have not done something. And children are generally unbiased. And when they are it is for the most innocent of reasons. And innocence is what you must value in a child, not vilify. Innocence is so fragile, and adults do their best to break it." Sherlock seemed to be off in his own little world. A world he did not seem to want to be in, going by the haunted look on his face.

So John decided to bring him out of it. "What do I have a sudden vision of ten year old you telling at every adult around you; "Why are you adults all so stupid?"" He asked, laughing. Sherlock laughed with John. It was funny because it was entirely accurate. Sherlock had that revelation one day during class and almost got expelled for it. But Mummy Holmes had pulled her strings and he'd been allowed to stay on. Safe to say none of the teachers had been too fond of him afterwards. But he'd graduated with Honors so it hadn't really mattered.

As they sped down the highway, John flicked on the radio. They talked amiably now, about pop culture, the latest celebrity scandal, anything that wasn't metaphorically a mine field. And as London grew closer, John caught himself thinking everything would be alright.

XXX

John walked towards Detective Inspector Lestrade's office. Greg and Mycroft had opted to keep their last names, though their household was secretly known as the Holmes-Lestrade household by the rest of the team and John had taken to calling them Mystrade privately. As he knocked on the open door, John saw Mycroft was visiting. All the better because John had a bone to pick with the British Government.

Unfortunatly, he'd walked in on them snogging and coughed quietly to gain their attention. Lips parted with a wet smack. Greg at least had the decency to look embarrassed. Mycroft looked like he always did; composed and indifferent, though a red tinge played around his cheeks.

"John," Greg said by way of greeting, "I didn't know you were dropping by today."

John chuckled. "Yeah, neither did I." he turned to the elder Holmes. "Have you lost something Mycroft?" He asked nonchalantly.

John knew he imagined the flash of confusion in Mycroft's eyes, he was too composed for that, but it was still an interesting thought to entertain. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Mycroft said loftily.

John arched an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

Sherlock strode around the wall then and leaned against the doorway. "Hi."

Lestrade's jaw dropped open while Mycroft let out a sigh of relief. "So that's where you went last night." Mycroft said, almost more to himself than to any of them. "But how did you get past your security detail? And more importantly, why didn't you tell me?" He asked his brother.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, I've been sneaking past security details since before you left for prep school. Remember when Aunt Margret accidentally pissed off the Iranian Junior Minister? I didn't even break a sweat getting past all those so called ex-Navy Seals." Sherlock scoffed and Mycroft chuckled. "Besides," Sherlock was suddenly serious. "would you have let me go?"

Mycroft opened his mouth quickly, like he had an obvious and easy answer. But then he hesitated, like he was rethinking his immediate answer. Then, he glanced at his husband, chewed on his cheek, and finally nodded. Sherlock raised one eyebrow, a quiet contention of his brother's answer. Mycroft dropped his head to the side as if to say: "You doubt me, brother dear?" then jerked his head at Greg. Sherlock seemed to consider it for a moment and nodded his understanding. Mycroft's smirk was a very loud I Told You So that no one could miss.

As for John and Greg, they were in the dark. John looked questioningly at the D.I. Lestrade shrugged, as out of the Holmes-Brother loop as the doctor. John's next look was a loud and clear: "He's your husband!" The not-my-division hands went up and John rolled his eyes and sighed.

These silent conversations were interrupted by the sound of a box of files meeting the floor in a not-too-kind way.

Sally Donovan stood in the doorway, the box of files she'd been carrying now scattered on the floor. "Holy shit!" She exclaimed as they turned to look at her. Her eyes were riveted to Sherlock and her mouth had dropped open. "You're dead." She muttered weakly. "We all went to your funeral…"

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised by that. "Did you? I'm sorry I wasn't there. I was still a bit out of it. A severe concussion can do that to a person, you know?"

John glanced at his friend. "Severe concussion?"

"Later John." Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft snorted. "A bit out of it? You slept for three days."

"That reminds me. Why are you two here? Other than to give us the happy news." Lestrade asked. Both Sherlock and John ignored the double meaning behind that last sentence.

"We need the files on Mary's murder. I guess we're going to go back to doing what we do best." John said, hardly able to keep the smile from his face.

Greg looked over at Sally, who was scooping up the files and putting them back in the box. She set the box on Greg's desk. "Donovan, can you go get those files?" he asked. She opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it with a click. With one last fleeting glance at Sherlock, sally left.

"While she dies that I'm going to go to the loo." John said and strode off after her.

Sherlock turned to his brother and Lestrade, serious again. "Where are we?"

Lestrade shook his head and leaned against the desk. "Nowhere. After the first few months of initial inquiries, no one had anything. All the suspects' alibis were cleared and there wasn't a scrap of real evidence. The case went cold. That's why it's here, not at Canterbury."

I thought the scene was a bloodbath. How could there be no evidence?"

"All the blood was Mary's and there were no fingerprints or epithelial cells to be found. There were no other marks on her body except for the cut on her neck and there was no blood in her veins. The murder weapon was nowhere to be found and the coroner declared it was an everyday, ordinary kitchen knife. There were no signs of a struggle or forced entry. So somehow, the murderer made their way into the house, managed to kill Mary without alerting Jaimey or harming him in any way, drain her of her blood, paint the dining room with it, and position Mary's body."

Sherlock considered it for a moment, "Please tell me Jaimey didn't find her." He asked pleadingly, knowing the kind of damage that kind of trauma could do to a person, especially a kid.

Greg shook his head. "No, Harry did. She was dropping by for dinner and…" He trailed off.

"I'm glad he didn't. Jaimey did not need to see that." Mycroft said.

"You've met him then?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smiled. "Of course. He likes to call me Uncle Mycroft. Has since he was a baby."

"And I'm Uncle Greg!" Lestrade said happily. "He's such a sweetheart. He reminds me of you though," He said, "in the way he sees the world. He sees everything. How'd he take to you anyway?"

"I think he actually likes me… He even asked me about Hatman and Robin. He found the deerstalker."

"John kept it all these years? Wow."

Sherlock nodded absently, but he wasn't really paying attention. He was thinking, always thinking. "How did he take it? Her death I mean."

Mycroft and Lestrade looked at each other. This was obviously something they both wished he hadn't asked and had wanted to avoid. Finally, Mycroft nodded. Greg sighed and turned to Sherlock. "Well, he was sad, obviously. I mean, she was his wife and the mother of his child. But he didn't get bad… like as bad as everyone expected him to get. He was so much worse after your death but with Mary's he kind of went…numb."

"Why?" There was something they weren't telling him.

Mycroft and Lestrade looked at each other again, the latter looking anxious and the former looking resigned. Eventually, Lestrade looked back at Sherlock. "Mary was cheating on John. It was an open secret, everyone knew."

Sherlock was shocked, then a wave of fury rolled over him. Balling his fists, Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth. "Did John know?"

Greg nodded. "She'd been doing it for years."

"Then why didn't he leave?"

"Jaimey." Lestrade said simply. "He knew if he left, the courts would award custody to Mary and he'd never see Jaimey again. He loves that kid more than anything in the world." Greg stared at Sherlock sadly. "Unfortunately, that made John a prime suspect since everyone in town knew about her affairs. He had a cast iron alibi of course, in surgery all day, but some of the people in Canterbury still think he did it. You know how old towns are, everyone knowing everyone's business. I think Jaimey gets teased about it in school too, not that he'd ever say anything to anyone. He's like you that way too."

Sherlock was furious. How could people be so stupid? John would never do a thing like that! Sure he had killed people before but that had always been in defense of another or himself! And Jaimey; Sherlock's heart went out to the boy. Sherlock knew what it was like, being taunted and bullied, especially if Jaimey really was like him, a proper genius, because that only made it worse. Sherlock knew his emotions must have showed on his face from the worried looks Mycroft and Lestrade were giving him. He schooled his features back to normal as John's footsteps came down the hall.

"Sherlock, if we want to get to Angelo's before the lunch rush hits, we might want to go." John said as he walked back into the office.

Sherlock nodded absently, "Right. Call when Sergeant Donovan finds the files?" he asked Lestrade.

The D.I. nodded. "Of course. Have fun."

As the two reunited friends let the office, Greg reached out to take Mycroft's hand. "Do you think they'll be okay?" he asked his husband.

Mycroft nodded. "They'll be fine. Soon they'll be as happy as we are." He squeezed the hand clasped firmly in his. "They have to be."


	3. Chapter 2

**Disappearing Act 2**

**Not as long as the last one but I figured it would be as good a place to stop as any. A bit of a cliffhanger but hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter out fast. Also, this is for the tumblr people because something in here ought to sound extremely familiar.**

**Sherlock=Me no owny! Godtiss and the Moff do! And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, because he is god. We need him back. He was fun!**

"Should we pop in on Mrs. Hudson? I don't want to give the old girl a heart attack but I think she'd kill me if I didn't." Sherlock said as they drove towards Northumberland street.

John snickered. "That's funny. Unfortunately for your redeemed honor, Mrs. Hudson is in Wales visiting her sister. You'll have to wait until she gets back."

They pulled up in front of the restaurant and got out. When they stepped through the door, Angelo was clearing off a table. The wine glass in his hand fell to the floor and shattered. "Sherlock!" Angelo cried as he seized Sherlock in a bone-crushing hug. "Oh I knew it! I knew the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead! Especially not after they cleared you."

Sherlock gasped and tried to tap out on Angelo's back. John was having a coughing fit that could have been hiding laughter. When Sherlock was about to pass out, Angelo released Sherlock and ushered the Consulting Detective and Doctor over to "their table" in front of the window. He handed them both menus and went to get a "more romantic" candle.

They ordered and Sherlock sipped his water. "So, how did I get cleared? I missed the initial coverage and just keep forgetting to research it."

"How could you have missed it? It was all over everywhere. Where were you then?" John asked.

A Taliban cave in the Pakistani mountains, but John didn't need to know about that. "Oh, nowhere. So, how was my name avenged?"

John chewed his lip, as though searching for a place to begin. Then, he spotted something leaning against the wall; it was a poster. John beamed at it a moment before turning it to reveal the subject to Sherlock. A spray-painted portrait of Sherlock with his eyes covered by a label that read in all capital letters: "MORIARTY WAS REAL" stared back at him. The caption benieth stated for all to see: "I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES" The bottom of fthe poster had been cut into pieces; all of which had been ripped off but the one on the end where "I BELIEVE" was printed.

"These were all over the place. And not just these ones either. You were famous. Remember all those readers I had on the blog? Most of them were teenagers and they went bat shit nuts when you supposedly confessed and killed yourself. They figured it all out. Like I said, there were quite a few of these. "Richard Brooke is a Lie!" and "Moriarty was real!" A few of them even got a picture of Lestrade that said "Trust Your Instincts." But I think my favorites were the "Watson's Warriors. Are you one of us?" Those weren't just posters. They made shirts and bags and hats. But they put the posters up everywhere; billboards, newsstands, tube stations, benches, everywhere that could be glued got one. Remember your spray paint friend? He led a marauding band all over London and tagged everything that could take the paint. But it wasn't all just graffiti and public unrest. They found proof, Moriarty's hideout, all of it. Things even Mycroft could never find. You would not believe the resources these kids have. They petitioned the courts and all. Your name was cleared in oh…two years I think. As soon as the news broke, they all volunteered to clean up. Not many of the posters are still floating around; mostly just in places the kids go like coffee shops and vintage stores. I'm surprised Angelo still has this one, but then again, you were always his favorite person. And Martin still tags for you on the already covered spots like the skate park and the bridges."

Sherlock was…pretty much speechless, a rare occurrence. "But…but why?"

John shrugged. "They liked you. More importantly, they respected you. You gave them hope that not all adults are as stupid as they seem. They seemed to like how you figured everything out too. It intrigued them; they wanted to be able to do it too. But they couldn't so they lived vicariously though you. They'll love knowing you're back." John hesitated a moment. "I can tell them, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm back. For now."

John tried hard to keep the hurt he felt at those words off his face but didn't know if he'd succeeded. "So, why?" he picked up a roll from the basket on the table, "Why'd you do all that? Fake your own death I mean. And where'd you go? What'd you do?"

Sherlock settled back in his chair and looked out the window. "You had a sniper pointed at your head. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, everyone I accidentally let too close. I almost had the code to call them off when-" he mimed Moriarty eating his gun, "All I could do was what he'd told me to. Luckily, I'd already had a hunch he would require something of that nature before we could be free of him and had a plan. Back before we met, when I was still a junky, I overdosed on cocaine once. My heart stopped but they were able to revive me. It's a peculiar quirk of that particular narcotic. Still I'd had the experience and now the knowledge. I never thought I'd have a practical use for it however."

"Wait," John had to make sure he'd heard that right, "y-you purposely OD'd on cocaine?"

Sherlock nodded. "I had to make sure it was believable, that you knew."

"B-but the blood—. No one could stand a fall that far…"

"I jumped for the garbage truck in the street. It wasn't too bad. Then, before the drugs took full effect, I jumped out of the truck. Hit my head on the concrete when the drugs kicked in but it worked. You and the snipers saw my dead body." Sherlock's voice had grown quiet, as though the memories hurt.

Or maybe it was just John. His friend's voice sounded far away as John recalled his own memories. Sherlock's last words; "Goodbye John."; the confusion as they talked over the phone; the terror as Sherlock fell; barely being able to cross the street; people trying to pull him away; holding Sherlock's hand and feeling…nothing; no pulse, no warmth, no spark of life; throwing himself back, away from the horrible red liquid as they got Sherlock on a gurney and rolled him into St Bartholomew's; then the funeral; years of mourning. There was sadness, so much pain, and it threatened to overwhelm him. But there was anger too, and that kept him afloat.

"How many people knew?" he ground out through clenched teeth.

"What?" Sherlock asked, a quiet tinge of fear in his voice at John's sudden anger.

"How many other people knew?" John took a deep breath, trying in vain to calm himself down.

"About faking it. Someone else had to, besides Mycroft. Not even you could pull that off by yourself. So, who else knew?"

"Only one: Molly. She faked my death certificate for me. And I didn't tell Mycroft. He figured it out before Molly had even put on her scrubs. He dumped eight gallons of ice on me to wake me up." Sherlock explained.

"Ice?" John asked, brows knitting together in confusion.

"It is by far the rudest way to wake someone in my position up. He had Molly forge the death certificate anyway and air-evaced me to his private hospital in West Oxfordshire. After I recuperated from my conclusion and cracked ribs, I started on my mission."

"Which was?"

Sherlock's eyes were full of determination. "To take down Moriarty's network."

Their bubble popped. The little bubble that had formed around them burst with Angelo's arrival with their food. They remembered that they were in a semi-crowded restaurant in the middle of London. John wondered why none of the other patrons were looking at Sherlock or himself oddly. They'd been talking of court trials and faked deaths, cocaine and stopped hearts. Then he realized that one of them cared. These events, which had been so large in John's life, were nothing but news stories to them, these so called normal people. And now, unlike when these events had happened, he didn't envy them their normalcy. He'd had a normal life for the last seven years. Now, he stood on the threshold of odd again and felt like he was returning home.

"So that's what you've been doing this whole time? For nine years, just taking down a criminal network?" John asked, just a touch disbelievingly. He knew Moriarty had been connected, but certainly not that connected.

"It wasn't just any criminal network!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It was the crème de la crème of criminal networks!" The manic spark was back in Sherlock's eyes. "I found American politicians, European business men, Russian Mafia agents, Portuguese plantation owners, Middle Eastern Sheiks, and more minor criminals than I thought possible. I found General Shun too. Moriarty had her killed after her run in with us and had been running the Black Lotus by pretending to her. It really was very masterful." Sherlock had been impressed. Even if Moriarty had been the devil in disguise, he had been very well organized. He gave a new meaning to the name of Organized Crime.

Sherlock hesitated. What he was about to tell John would not make him happy, but he deserved to know. "But it didn't take me nine years."

"What?"

"It didn't take me nine years to destroy Moriarty's network. It took me three and a half." It took John a moment, but he realized what Sherlock was saying. And it felt like he'd just been punched in the gut. Sherlock rushed to explain. "But by then you were already married with Jaimey on the way. I couldn't just march back into your life. It wasn't that I didn't want to or that I'd forgotten; I just wanted you to be happy. And it seemed like you were. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy… I'm so sorry…" Sherlock's voice trailed off. John's eyes were squeezed shut and he was trembling. Sherlock wanted so desperately to reach out and touch John, to comfort him, tell him everything would be okay, that he was there and that he wouldn't be leaving again. But he couldn't for fear that John would lash out at him. Where the years of being apart from the one person Sherlock had let into his heart hadn't, for John to lash out and reject him would destroy Sherlock.

But after several agonizing minutes of watching his only friend in pain, Sherlock had to say something. "John?" he almost whispered.

John took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. The deep blue orbs swam with tears, but John's smile was so much more. "It's fine. It's all fine." He said in a hoarse whisper. "I forgive you." He'd forgiven Sherlock when he opened the door, was it really only last night, and saw him standing on the front step.

Before Sherlock could do more than beam, his mobile went off. It was Lestrade. Sherlock pressed the phone to his ear. "You found them?" He asked expectantly. Sherlock's eyebrows knit together and John knew something was wrong. "What do you mean there's a problem? Okay, fine, we're on our way." John was already throwing fifteen quid on the table and standing up. They ran from the restaurant.

XXX

"So what exactly is the problem with the evidence?" Sherlock asked as they barged back into the New Scotland Yard building and Lestrade's office. There was an evidence box on Greg's desk with "Mary Susan Watson: COLD" written on the label. Sherlock strode over and flipped off the lid. He bent over to examine the multitude of pictures and written descriptions of the crime scene. "I don't see a problem. But where's the physical evidence?" Sherlock asked, looking up at Lestrade.

The D.I. sighed. "The physical evidence is the problem. It's gone. All of it. There were two boxes on file and we only found one. We're still looking of course but…"

Sherlock looked up. At the look in his eyes, Lestrade felt like taking as step back. "Say that again."

"We can't find the other box with the rest of the evidence. It must have been mislabeled when it got transferred here." Greg was trying to explain but Sherlock wasn't listening.

No, that wasn't it. The box hadn't been mislaid or mislabeled. Greg Lestrade and the rest of the team were not the type of people to mislabel something of such personal importance to them, especially not after requesting it be transferred specially to their division. Why else would it be there? No…it had been stolen.

"That's it!" Sherlock almost yelled, causing Greg and John to jump, and started digging through the photo evidence.

"What's it?" Jon and Greg asked together.

Sherlock spoke as he examined each photo carefully. "The rest of the evidence isn't anywhere in this building. The killer stole it. No one would mislay a case so directly linked to John. Not in this squadron anyway. But they only took the physical evidence, which means we're supposed to look at this stuff here, which means it's a message. For one of us," he was talking about John and himself. "Its less likely to be John because the murderer went to what appears to be great pains not to disturb or harm Jaimey in any way, other than the intense psychological damage that could have occurred if he'd found the body. So it was meant for me…" he trialed off, tracing a spiral drawn in blood with his fingers.

"Sorry, but everyone thought you were dead. How could the murderer have left a message for you?" John asked.

"Obviously someone made a very good guess." Sherlock muttered but his further musings were cut off by the ringing of John's mobile phone.

"It's Jaimey's school…" John murmured before answering. "Hello? Yes, yes, this is John Watson. …What? He did what?"

**R&R Dearies!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Disappearing Act 3**

**Schools are real. The policies and people…not so much. But I know schools do this! That is all.**

**Jaimey, Mikhail, and Ms. Annie © Me**

John half ran down the hall towards the nurse's office, Sherlock right behind him. He stopped in the door and stared. Jaimey sat in a chair and was nursing a swollen cheek that was already beginning to bruise and a cut lip, the deerstalker clutched tight in his little fist. Another boy far worse off and still being tended to by the nurse, sat on the exam table. He had a wet rag pressed to his face and his head tilted back because of his bloody and probably broken nose, his eye had already swelled shut, and from the pack of ice on the back of his head, was growing quite the goose egg. The boy had to have been at least two years older and 40 lbs. heavier than Jaimey.

The Headmistress was standing in the corner, but John ignored her for the time being and rushed over to Jaimey. "James! Are you okay?" John asked worriedly and kneeled down to give Jaimey a doctor's once-over for more wounds. That's how Jaimey knew his father was really worried; John only ever called him James when he was worried.

"I'm fine daddy." Jaimey said, preparing to wince as his father's calloused fingers brushed over his cheeks. But the wince never came as his father's cool fingers were lighter than feathers.

"Are you sure?" John looked into his son's clear blue eyes.

Jaimey nodded and smiled, even though it hurt his lip. "Positive dad."

Headmistress Denuta stepped forward but John still didn't look at her. Sherlock could see the distaste in her eyes, clear as her resentful sneer, But she quickly composed herself as she spoke. "Dr. Watson, we need to discuss what happened."

"Yes, what did happen?" John asked.

"Well, it appears to be—" Headmistress Denuta began but Jon cut her off.

"I'm sorry," John said with a very familiar expression on his face. Sherlock recognized it as the expression John used to use when somebody insulted him: no mercy, no compassion. "But I would rather hear what happened from my own son's mouth." Denuta closed her mouth with a snap and John turned back to Jaimey. "What happened son?"

Jaimey huffed and sat back in his chair. "I was trying to remember the correct physics formula I could use to get an apple from the tree in the yard when Bryan," he glared daggers at the other boy, who returned the look as best he could, "came over and pushed me. He said you murdered Mum cause you're a "faggot" and tried to take the deerstalker." Jaimey's sneer turned smug. "So I tackled him to the ground and started punching him. S'not my fault he cracked his head on the concrete."

Sherlock had to bite his fist to keep from laughing out loud at what Jaimey said. In truth, eh would have done the same in Jaimey's situation. The boy seemed to have inherited his dad's fierce loyalty and would do anything to protect those he latched onto.

The nurse finally moved away form Bryan. The boy started to tell his side of the story. "Yeah, yeah, so I teased him a little." He said, slightly muffled from the cloth. "Besides, it's true aint it?" Shelock felt himself disliking this kid more and more. Then again, it probably wasn't exactly his fault. Kids tended to repeat what they heard their parents said, and whatever this kid's parents were saying about John wasn't good.

Ms. Denuta spoke, "Dr. Watson, this is the first offence but I'm sorry to say we won't be asking Jaimey back next term. If it weren't so close to break well…" She shrugged, as though to say there was nothing more she could do.

John gritted his teeth. "What? You can't do that!"

Headmistress Denuta's expression, which had been one of faked sympathy, turned cold. "I'm afraid I can. Your son has caused lasting damage to—"

"Lasting damage? I've had worse injuries from walking into a door!"

"Nevertheless, your son broke school rules and harmed another student."

"What about all those times last year that Jaimey came home with bruises from the other boys? I don't recall you making near as much a fuss then."

"That did not happen on school grounds. This did; out in the yard." John clenched his fists but knew there was nothing he could do. Ms. Denuta continued. "Of course, Jaimey will be allowed to finish the rest of the term. But after the holiday, I'm sorry to say he cannot return. I do suggest however, that you take James home early today" She said it in a way that implied it was not a suggestion at all.

"Fine," John spat and held out his hand to Jaimey, "Come on Jaimey." Jaimey bounded off the chair and took his father's hand.

But as soon as they were out of earshot, Jaimey let go and turned to Sherlock. "Will you pick me up, Sherlock?" He asked and stretched his arms upwards.

Sherlock grinned down at the boy. "Sure kiddo." He scooped the small boy into his arms.

John was surprised. Jaimey normally didn't like being held by anyone but John, not even his mother. He was generally very shy as well, but he seemed to have taken to Sherlock like glue.

"Daddy?" Jaimey asked. From his position in Sherlock's arms, he was as tall as John.

"Yes Jaimey?"

"I'm sorry I got expelled. I shouldn't have hit Bryan. But I just couldn't stand what he was saying about you."

John smiled lovingly at his son. "Its alright Jaimey. I probably would have done the same."

Jaimey smiled, but Sherlock could see he was still upset. "But did you see the damage you did to that kid? And he was at least two years older than you!" He asked, in only barely faked astonishment.

Jaimey giggled. "Yeah! Bryan's the school bully, so I hope I got to knock him down a peg or two. And I punched him just like you taught me to Dad!" John beamed proudly at his son. They were all laughing as they drove home.

But later that night, after Jaimey had gone to bed, Sherlock found John slumped in his chair. He looked defeated and nothing like the John Watson Sherlock knew.

"John?" He asked gently.

"I don't know what I'm going to do Sherlock. None of the schools around here will take Jaimey. Not now. And I hear them, all the time, whispering. They all think I killed Mary. Even the police. You know that kid Bryan? His dad is the Chief Inspector. I don't think we can stay here anymore." John's head dropped into his hands.

Sherlock sat in the chair opposite him and turned over something he'd been thinking about since that morning.

"Is Mrs. Hudson still renting out 221b?"

XXX

Of course she was. Not that there had been many renters since Sherlock and John. A few people had wanted to see the flat, but mostly just to see where Sherlock Holmes had once lived. Now, Mycroft paid the rent so he could keep Sherlock's stuff there.

So, a week later, after Mrs. Hudson had returned from Wales, Sherlock and John went to see her. She'd nearly had a heart attack when she saw Sherlock, but began reprimanding him for making her worry almost immediately. John hadn't realized until then how much he missed her and her motherly ways. They discussed living back at 221b; there was a bedroom upstairs across from John's old room for Jaimey and the boys could go back to their old rooms. Of course, Mrs. Hudson made the assumption that they wouldn't be needing John's old room. They'd both rushed to correct her, but the knowing gleam in her eye never waned.

After a few minutes of catching up, Mrs. Hudson didn't care how or why Sherlock had faked his death just that he was home, Sherlock slipped outside for a smoke. Mrs. Hudson poured John more tea and after a moment of watching him watch the door, she huffed and gave him a look that said clearly "Go after him" in nine different ways.

When John closed the door, he saw Sherlock leaning against the wall, a cigarette pressed firmly between his lips. John stepped towards him. "I thought you quit."

Sherlock smirked and took a long drag. "I didn't have you to keep me calm and clean. I needed something." Another drag and then a pause. Sherlock stared at the fag in his fingers. "But this is my last one." He flicked the half burned cancer stick onto the sidewalk and ground it beneath his heel. "Cold turkey. I won't smoke around Jaimey."

John smiled disbelievingly at Sherlock and had the rather sudden urge to hug him. Instead, he said, "Thank you. It's like when Mycroft made Greg quit when they adopted Mikhail."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, looking at John.

John stared at him. "…You're joking, right?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, still looking confused. "No…"

"Greg and Mycroft's son? Your nephew? The boy they adopted from Russia nine years ago."

"Oh right! I've got one of those now, don't I?"

"You couldn't remember you have a nephew?"

"I'm not exactly used to having one alright?"

"They've had him longer than I've had Jaimey!"

"So? It's not like I've ever met the kid! Mycroft told me they were adopting and that was that."

"Wow…"

They watched the cars pass along the street. After a few minutes, John spoke again. "If we move back here, where is Jaimey going to go to school?"

XXX

"Why, at Abercorn with Mikhail of course!" Mycroft said over lunch two weeks later. "Mikhail can keep an eye on Jaimey, like I used to for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock chose to ignore his brother's sugary smirk. "I'm rather surprised you chose Abercon. I though you'd pin him for King Solomon."

Mycroft grimaced. "Solomon is too much like our old school. I was not exposing him to that kind of environment."

Sherlock grimaced in his turn. "That bad?"

"Perhaps not to the same degree, no ambassadors kids at the very least, but with the same over emphasis on achievement at any cost. I didn't want Mickey to go through the same Hell we did."

"Did you just call him "Mickey"?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows rising to meet his hairline.

John and Greg exchanged looks. "Were your school days really that bad?" John asked.

Mycroft looked at him. "You've never gone to school with diplomat's kids." His attention shifted back to is brother. "And just what is wrong with "Mickey"?"

Sherlock stared at John as well. "They're preparing to go into the diplomatic corps. They need the best grades and are vicious about it." Sherlock focused on his brother again. "It's weird. You were never one for nicknames."

But further Holmes brother banter was interrupted as Jaimey and Mikhail came back in from playing in the garden.

XXX

The front door slammed and John looked up from packing as Jaimey rushed into the living room, backpack bouncing off his small shoulders.

"Where's the fire, kid?"

"Dad, dad, dad, guess what, guess what, guess what!" Jaimey yelled enthusiastically after he pecked his father on the cheek. "Ms. Annie asked where I was gonna go when we moved and so I told her and she said she'd gotten a job offer from Abercorn! Wouldn't that be great?" Jaimey was bouncing up and down like a puppy.

Ms. Annie was Jaimey's maths teacher and by far his favorite. Annie was very nice to John as well and the only one that didn't openly hate him. She was so young, only twenty-five, that Jaimey thought of her as a cousin or sister he'd never had.

"Yeah Jaimey, that would be cool."

**This chapter was mostly just a set up for some later drama and a time passer chapter so it may not be quite up to snuff. Still, I hope it's alright. Its about early to mid December now in the story which means CHRISTMAS! And another Christmas party at 221b Baker Street, this time with three kids running around and nobody'll be sober after they go to bed. (Molly got married and Harry and Clara are coming!) And for those of you that have been waiting ever so patiently for some Johnlock, this will be your chapter! Enjoy it while it lasts though loves because after that, we're getting into the **_**mystery.**_

**R&R Dears!**


	5. Chapter 4

**Disappearing Act 4**

**IM SORRY FOR HOW LATE THIS IS! I AM NOT WORTHY!**

**I blame that on the fact that I didn't start typing for a long while and that I wanted to get every word right. I hope I did alright. I've been listening to a variety of different accents recently as well so if anything sounds a bit more original Sherlock Holmes English or Civil Rights Era South Carolinian then please excuse that. Also, the last chapter took place during early to mid November not December as I said. I'll change that when I'm done.**

**221B Baker Street Christmas is half based on A Christmas Story and half on what my aunt's family does. So if it sounds off, I assure you all that people do actually do this on Christmas. Promise!**

**Jenna Vonson, Ben Vonson, James Watson, and Mikhail Holmes-Lestrade are all © to me**

**Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Molly Hooper (Vonson), Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, and Greg Lestrade are all © the Moff, Godtiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

**Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling**

**Christmas songs © their respective owners**

The flat was only half unpacked, though it looked much more lived in thanks to Sherlock's various possessions. After two weeks of tripping over boxes, John had finally had enough and chucked out all of Sherlock's long abandoned experiments, anything that even reminded John of Jim Moriarty, including the pink phone case, and was halfway through Sherlock's clothes before someone stopped him. That someone turned out to be Lestrade bringing John Jaimey's registration forms for Abercorn. When he found John smelling Sherlock's favorite purple shirt, he almost didn't want to stop him, the other man appeared to be enjoying himself so much. But apparently his silent giggles weren't so silent. John had blushed and mumbled and been generally embarrassed. Then he threatened Greg on pain of death not to tell anyone, especially not either of the Holmes brothers. The D.I. had conceded but rolled his eyes at Jaimey and Jaimey rolled back.

Jaimey had figured out that Sherlock liked his dad the second he saw them together and had known for an age and a half that his dad liked Sherlock. Any one with eyes could tell. And kids always knew, it was scientific fact as Jaimey explained to Mikhail. Mickey was going to be one of those oblivious boys that couldn't tell a girl liked him even if she wore a shirt that said 'I Love You Mikhail Holmes-Lestrade!" Or boy, since Jaimey still wasn't sure on that score just yet. So Jaimey started to plot. He came up with some feasible plans, and some outlandish ones. Eventually, he came up with plots had even Mikhail laughing at him. But Jaimey didn't realize his plan didn't need to be intricate to get John and Sherlock together. He didn't need a plan at all. In fact, James S. Watson wouldn't even be conscious for the grand event. And all John and Sherlock would need was a plant.

XXX

After a wild three weeks of unpacking, they were done. Well, that wasn't strictly true. The Christmas decorations were still in their boxes in the living room because, as Jaimey had pointed out the second they were through the door, they'd need them again in a few days anyway. And he was right. As soon as the last non decoration box was stomped down and kicked to the curb (quite literally because Jaimey wanted to play footy in the spring), it was already the 22nd of December. So they decided to throw a Christmas/Homecoming party with their friends. Well, it was really more Jaimey's idea and John had agreed and Sherlock had kind of grunted. But John knew better. Sherlock was actually looking forward to the gathering. John knew this by the way Sherlock spent all the next day tuning his violin and sampling Christmas music in snatches while John emailed everyone. And when they went to pick out a tree that evening, Sherlock was more than humoring Jaimey as they ran from row to row. John had a sneaking suspicion that it was the first real Christmas Sherlock had had in a long time.

The party was a bit last minute, but since everyone else had just been planning a quiet night at home, a quiet night with friends wasn't that much different. Mrs. Hudson would of course be there, and Mycroft and Greg with Mikhail. John invited Harry and Clara (before the divorce was finalized, they'd decided to give it one more go, with Harry promising to stay sober. She had mostly unless it was a very bad night and they'd realized each other more than enough to get through those. They'd been together ever since.). Molly had gotten married. She and her husband Ben had a five year old named Jenna. They would be coming as well. Jenna called Jaimey and Mikhail her big brothers and John knew that someday she would be the most well protected little girl in all of Great Britain. It was really quite cute and Molly often joked about what would happen when they were older.

Mrs. Hudson spent all day baking Christmas treats with Jaimey's assistance. Just after seven everybody started arriving, He kids would open their one night-before present each that night after they decorated the tree. Jenna bolted up the stairs ten minutes before her parents and pounced on an unsuspecting Jaimey and demanded a piggy-back ride. Ben, who was a pastry chef, went to go help Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock struck up a conversation with Molly about whether or not he could get body parts from St. Bart's again. And when Mycroft, Greg, and Mikhail came in, red-faced from the snowstorm outside, Greg taught the kids how to build a fire in the grate. Clara joined the others in the kitchen and showed no fear in smacking Mycroft's hand with a spoon when he tried to sneak something. Harry spent an hour reading to the kids from _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_, Jaimey's favorite, and didn't go for her hip flask once. Soon enough, the small flat began to feel cozy.

Just before Harry got the Firebolt back, Mrs. Hudson passed round cookies, tea, and hot chocolate to everyone. Jaimey wriggled his way from under his favorite aunt's arm and sidled over to where Sherlock was sitting.

"Sherlock, will you play for me?" he asked, peering up with wide blue eyes and all his charm.

Sherlock smiled and lifted the instrument from where it rested beside his chair. He settled the rest firmly under his chin and closed his eyes. Touching the bow to the strings, Sherlock began to play _Silver Bells. _When he finished, Sherlock stood up and strode to the window, playing _O Tannenbaum _to the snowy city outside. Jaimey ran up to the tree and hung a small star among the lighted branches. Mickey hung a red and white striped candy cane and Jenna nearly knocked the tree over trying to hang a bulb as high as she could so Mickey and Jaimey lifted her onto their shoulders. The whole tree was decorated in that matter with everyone adding an ornament to the tall fir. After the final chorus of _Oh Holy Night_, Sherlock set aside his violin and Jaimey stood on his and John's hands and pushed the gold star into place on the top branch to cheers from the others.

"Presents now!" Jenna cried, hugging her pink gift to her chest. She pulled the sparkly paper off and squealed as a bright pink case of princess makeup was revealed. Mikhail's present was a first edition collection of Emily Dickinson poems. At the unmanly squeal produced by the twelve year old, Jaimey laughed himself hoarse. But it was Mikhail that couldn't breathe for laughing when Jaimey unwrapped a chemistry set and his eyes bugged. Jaimey wanted to see what would happen if he submerged one of Mrs. Hudson's cookies in acetone but John managed to successfully distract him with Christmas specials on the telly. The adults talked and the children watched, but one by one the under 21s had visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. John, Molly, and Greg carried the children into Jaimey's room to let them sleep. They paused the landing when they saw Mycroft and Sherlock discussing something with the air of two people planning a raid on a missile silo. As the three people that had spent the most time with the Holmes brothers, they could laugh at the way the two brothers interacted even now that they got along better. The smiles died on John and Greg's faces as they heard what the brothers were discussing.

"Mother insists you come to the Gala. And bring John." Mycroft exclaimed in exasperation with just a touch of desperation.

"Tell her I can't! I loathe her parties on principle and the New Years ones have always been the worse. And why does she want John to go? She better not just be trying to see him in his mess-dress." Sherlock countered.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Of course she wants to see him in his mess-dress! You know she has a thing for military men. She married Father didn't she?" Both shuddered at some unknown mental image. "And besides, she's met John and Jaimey both before. She coddles Jaimey quite as much as Mickey, but then she has always wanted grandchildren from both of us."

Sherlock chose to ignore the implication behind his brother's smug grin. "How does she even know I'm still alive? You swore not to tell her!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Please. Don't you remember who we get our intelligence from? She figured it out before you woke up. Came roaring into my office, sending half my people to the hospital, demanding to know what you thought you were doing jumping off buildings."

Greg managed to unstick his feet from the floor and walked back into the room, John and a very confused Molly following. "We're going to visit your mother?" He asked. There was a growing trepidation, though it was more a fear for John not himself. He loved Mrs. Holmes, or Mummy as she'd insisted he call her, but she could be downright terrifying; as Greg had learned when they first met. She had asked him to help her for a moment and then proceeded to threaten him with a death more painful than anything Moriarty could have ever dreamt up. This threat would, of course, only be carried out if Greg ever dared harm her baby boy. Greg was certain John would get the same treatment if he and Sherlock ever made it official.

"Mother returned from her vacation early this year to throw a New Year's Gala." Mycroft said, nodding. "It is her wish that Sherlock and I attend and bring you, John, Jaimey, and Mikhail along. I was just trying to persuade my dear brother."

"Yeah, we heard. Why didn't you tell me?" Greg asked.

"Because she only informed me this morning. I decided just to kill two birds with one stone."

John was attempting to hold back a grin. He nudged Sherlock. "Oh, let's go. It's been months since I saw Mummy, and Jaimey rather likes attending her parties. He says they're spectacular for people-watching."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's about all we'll be doing then." He grumbled. "Alright, fine. We'll go."

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you."

And John smiled as Sherlock started up a conversation with Ben about his job.

XXX

Sherlock closed the door quietly as the last of their guests departed so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson. The elderly woman had gone to bed shortly after the children. It was nearly midnight and everyone had early days tomorrow. Those with children would b roused for presents, and those without for travel. Even Harry and Clara were driving to Bristol to visit with Clara's family.

As the lock clicked back into place, John looked up absentmindedly. What he saw made his breathing come in a rush. Sherlock followed his gaze and sighed. "I see Mrs. Hudson's been decorating." He murmured. A small sprig of leaves with three white berries hung with a red ribbon from the ceiling.

He looked back a John to find the shorter man already staring at him. Frost met ocean and something sparked. Neither saw the other move closer, but before either knew it their lips had connected. John felt a thrill travel down his spine as Sherlock moved his mouth against John's own. John stood on his tiptoes and arched into the embrace as Sherlock lapped at his lips, begging for entrance. John obliged and wound his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's hands moved to the small of John's back as their tongues teased and moved together. John wanted the kiss to last forever, but all too soon, the need for air became too great and they pulled away.

They stared at each other for a minute before Sherlock's hands dropped and he stepped away from John. He looked horrified with himself. "I am sorry John." he whispered.

"Sherlock?" John asked, completely blindsided by Sherlock's actions. He'd thought Sherlock was asexual, even after Ms. Adler, but that kiss… Everything was different now, but Sherlock looked like he was regretting everything.

"Oh god… I am so, _so…_ Sorry. I mean, your wife just died and—"

"Sherlock." Sherlock acted like he hadn't heard.

"I shouldn't have done that. I wasn't thinking and—"

"Sherlock!" John yelled. Sherlock stopped and looked up, a nearly unreadable expression in his eyes.

John took a deep breath. "Did you see me complaining?" John smiled at the confused expression on Sherlock's face. John tried to convey as many feelings as he could through his eyes as he spoke.

"John?"

"I love you Sherlock Holmes. Just let me say that this once because I can't explain why or how. But I've loved you since the day after we met and shot that bloody cabbie. And then, what barely a month after we'd met? I was ready to die for you at the pool. Back then I didn't think of it as anything more than loyalty to my best friend. But then The Woman showed interest in you and… I went crazy with jealousy. And I didn't know why! When we went to get the camera phone and she wasn't wearing anything… She was right you know? I did avoid your nose and teeth. Even if I did get a little…carried away. But then again, who would pass up the opportunity to hit you?" His attempt at humor came to nothing and John sighed. "And then when you died… I was so messed up. It took me a year to move out because I just… I didn't want to let go. I didn't want to believe you were gone. I lashed out at anyone who told me to move on. But eventually I couldn't take it. I thought the day I let you go would be the day I went mad."

"But Mary—"

John chuckled humorlessly. "Mary… I met her a month after I moved out. I suppose you could call it a whirlwind romance. She distracted me from missing you and six months later, I was proposing. I loved her I know I did. But some love fades. By the time Jaimey was a year old we weren't in love anymore. Mary was much younger than me and had been a bit of a party girl before we met. I don't think she was ready to be married yet. And having a baby in the house… Well, after one too many late night feedings she got in the car and drove back here, to London. Back to clubs and bars and a different party every night. A different guy too, as I found out later. I didn't really care though. I had Jaimey and I wouldn't leave him with her."

Here was silence for a moment and John wondered what to say next. "Well, that's that then. I love you Sherlock and I used to put up such a fight when people though we were a couple because I thought I'd have forever with you. And then forever ended. But now it's like I've got a second chance and I needed to tell you before something else happened, before something else took you away from me. You probably don't want anything to do with me now but—" John's speech, which was fast turning into rambling, was cut off by Sherlock's hands on either side of his face.

Piercing blue eyes stared into him with an almost unimaginable emotion. But John knew what it was. It was love. "John?"

John felt the word more than heard it. "Yes?"

"I love you too."

XXX

Neither slept that night, not really. They dozed, and talked, and lay, curled in John's bed. They kissed and pet, but neither was ready for more and both were content just to be in each other's arms.

Finally, when Jaimey didn't come wake them up, Sherlock and John went down to the kitchen to make breakfast. The water in the kettle was boiling when Jaimey came running down the stairs. He paused suddenly in the doorway, his red dressing gown slipping from his shoulders and Ferdinand the Skull, whom he'd commandeered, clutched in his arms.

The smile on Jaimey's face grew impossibly wider. He peered up at Sherlock, sandy curls falling away from his face. "Does this mean I get to call you "Dad" now too?" He asked brightly.

John almost did a spit-take with his freshly brewed tea. "W-what?" He spluttered.

Jaimey turned wide blue eyes on his father. "As long as that's okay with you Daddy."

John made an odd movement with his hand, as though to suggest that it was up to Sherlock. "What brought that on?" He asked. His son should have been in bed and fast asleep last night and have no knowledge of what happened between him and Sherlock.

Jaimey looked from his father to Sherlock and back. "Well, you guys are in love, right?"  
>Sherlock and John glanced at each other and nodded. "And you finally go around to telling each other last night, right?" Another, more tentative, nod. "Well, Uncle Greg is always going on about the fact that once you guys got back together, and together-together, you'd always be together because Sherlock without John or vice versa is something that should never happen again. Because you're happiest together. You are happy, right?" More nodding. "And you're going to be together for a long, long time, maybe forever. Which means Sherlock will be a big part of my life for a long, long time and I can learn a lot from him and I respect him. So he's kinda like a dad. Unless," And here Jaimey turned misted eyes on Sherlock. "you don't like me?" Poor man, he never had a chance.<p>

Sherlock gulped as the puppy-dog eyes fell upon him. Those combined with a quivering lip broke down the last of Sherlock's walls. Jaimey had carved himself a niche in Sherlock's heart, right alongside his father. Sherlock dropped down to Jaimey's level and in a reflexive, latent parental move, brushed sandy curls from the boy's eyes. "Of course I like you Jaimey."

The boy's eyes grew impossibly wider and a hopeful smile played around his lips. "Then I can call you "Dad"?"

Sherlock looked helplessly at John. At John's apprehensive stare, the detective made a decision. Sherlock turned back to Jaimey with a warm smile. "Sure James, of course you can call me dad."

The boy's entire countenance changed. Faster than blinking he went from worried and innocent to boisterous and triumphant. "Yes!" he cried, throwing his little fists in the air. "Best Christmas ever!"

As Jaimey ran for the tree in the living room, John murmured, "He hasn't even opened his presents yet and he acts like we've just given him the world." The doctor handed Sherlock his mug. "You did good." John said softly.

"You aren't mad?" Sherlock asked anxiously.

"Why would I be mad?"

"Well, _you_ are his dad. I though maybe I was intruding or something, I mean I've only known Jaimey for a while and—"

John silenced his partner's rambling with a finger pressed against the taller man's lips, fighting hard too keep a grasp on his laughter. Really, for a man who observed everything, Sherlock could be so oblivious. "I'm glad Jaimey likes you. And I'm thrilled you like him. But are you okay with being "Dad"? It's a big responsibility, being a seven year old's hero." John eyes Sherlock warily. "That's what you are to him you know? One of his heroes."

Sherlock knew. He didn't understand, but he knew. "Yeah, I'm going to have to start taking better care of myself. Eat more often than once a week, sleep rather than run myself to exhaustion, curse less especially around him," he heaved a dramatic sigh. "only chase down the non-deadly bad guys, don't shoot at the walls, don't leave any guns laying about, make sure my chemicals are put away, don't leave any potentially dangerous experiments in places he can get them, no more body parts…" he trailed off at the horrified expression on John's face. "What?"

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" the shorter man asked.

Sherlock chuckled humorlessly and rolled his eyes. "Very funny, John."

"No, seriously," John reached up on tip-toes to touch Sherlock's forehead. "are you feeling alright?"

Sherlock tired to ignore how close John was and chose to focus on where the doctor was going with this.

At the consternated expression on the detective's face, John cracked a smile. "If you stopped doing those things, you'd stop being you Sherlock." John dropped back onto his heels. "I have a strongbox in my room so we can lock up the guns at night, but I've had them in the house since before Jaimey was born. He's educated about them and is already starting to ask me to teach him how to shoot. And as long as he stays out of firing range when you're bored…As for chemicals and body parts, I think you're going to have some competition for the table now I've bought Jaimey his own set. And I think he'd find it rather amusing to find body parts around the flat. He'd probably turn it into a game. He used to bring dead animals in a few years back and the housekeeper we had at the time threw a fit whenever she found one somewhere or other." John patted Sherlock on the chest playfully. "But yeah, no more running after criminals. You've got to stay safe, for both of us." John stepped closer and looked into Sherlock's bright blue eyes.

Sherlock smiled lovingly down at John and leaned in to brush his lips over the shorter man's. "I love you." He murmured against the soft skin.

"I love you too." John sighed. His fingers twisted into Sherlock's dark curls and pulled him closer for another kiss. Just a hairs breadth away and—

"Daaads!" Jaimey called impatiently from the living room.

John laughed breathily and pulled away, ignoring the pout on Sherlock's face. "Coming Jaimey."

XXX

The morning went well. Well, more than well if you asked the residents of 221b Baker Street. Jaimey received a copy of _Edgar Allen Poe's Completed Works _from Mycroft, a box of his favorite sweets from Clara, a new video game from Greg, his favorite movie from Mikhail, a Gryffindor scarf from Harry, a Pikachu umbrella from Molly and Ben, and his fair share of clothes. (But no one likes those.)

The best moment of the morning however, was when Jon pulled one last present out of hi srobe. He handed the small blue and white box to Jaimey and as the sapphire ribbon fell away, a shriek of joy loud enough to shatter glass issued from Jaimey's mouth. The small boy flung his arms around his father to a chorus of "Thank you"s and something silvery glinted in his hand. John pulled away and dropped his dog tags, for that's indeed what the gift had been, around his son's neck.

Jaimey clutched the tags reverently and beamed. "Oh really, Dad?" he gasped, still disbelieving even with the chain around his neck.

"Of course kiddo. You've been begging me to wear them for a while and I think you're finally ready." John said, smiling down proudly at his son.

Jaimey squealed in delight. "I have the best family!"

**New longest chapter. No seriously, 15 pages written.**

**It may seem like Jaimey is taking too fast to Sherlock and that Sherlock seems a bit OOC, but when a little kid idolizes and looks up to you, you want to do everything in your power to be worth that love. And Jaimey has been wishing for this moment, meeting Sherlock and seeing his dad as happy as he was with Sherlock in the old days, since he was much younger. Jaimey is an observant kid and its not hard to see dissention in your family, especially when you're a child. He's been seeing it for years. Now he's got a happy family. The best, as he so aptly puts it.**

**R&R My Dears!**


	6. Chapter 5

**Disappearing Act 5**

**I've always seen Mummy Holmes as kind of like Muzzy from Thoroughly Modern Millie. Very elegant and beautiful but determined to live life to the fullest, especially with her grandbabies around. I see her as coming from a very old, very rich French family and growing up to be the heiress. Like all old families, her's wanted to keep the money amongst the bluebloods. Lucky for Reva, she'd already fallen in love with young Montgomery Holmes, a match heartily applauded by both families. Reva looks more like Sherlock and Mycroft more like Monty, who has been dead for twelve years in this universe.**

**Also, I'm sorry if there are any incongruities in John's attire. You would not believe how hard it is to find a straight answer to what a British Army Captains Mess Dress looks like, and forget about a picture!**

**Sherlock's tux based off of http:/ reapersun .tumblr .com /post/10683544024/ people-are-looking-john-no-ones**

**Reva, Jaimey and Mickey are all © me!**

**Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Greg, © The Moff, Godtiss, and our Lord and Master Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

"Dad, I can't get this stupid thing to tie!"

It took Sherlock a moment to realize Jaimey was speaking to him. Jaimey had been calling him "Dad" for only six days and Sherlock still wasn't used to it. He didn't mind though, not at all. The detective turned away from the mirror in John's room where he was straightening his own lily white tie to see the small boy fumbling with a black bowtie. Sherlock knelt and twisted the cloth with practiced deftness into a crisp bow.

"Thank you Dad!" Jaimey said and hugged Sherlock quickly, something in his hands clinking softly. He had his father's dog tags. John was going to wear them with his uniform. Speaking of John, the older man was using the better light in the bathroom to pin his medals in the correct order.

Just as Jaimey was about to ask where his father was, John stepped out of the bathroom. Sherlock was gobsmacked, a brand-new occurrence for the detective. John looked fantastic. He wore a blue, double-breasted jacket with red trim on the cuffs and high collar. His pants were a deep navy blue with a red stripe up the leg and his highly polished boots shone like mirrors. The skilled doctor's hands were encased in crisp white gloves and a red beret with Her Majesty's Coat of Arms emblazoned on the front perched jauntily on his head. A saber and sheath hung from his hip in place of the usual pistol. The overall effect on John's short, well-built, stocky frame was exceptionally pleasing. Or as Jaimey put it, "Wow Dad! You look amazing!" The tough, solemn mask cracked and John smiled.

Jaimey held up the dog tags and John stooped to allow his son to fix them around his neck. John straightened and spread his arms wide. "Well? How do I look Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock rubbed his chin and made a great show of looking John up and down, searching for just the right word. Then, he grinned. "I think you look quite dishy Captain." Sherlock stated with a salute.

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Yeah, dishy, right. Its been a few years, I was afraid I wouldn't fit." John patted his stomach and Sherlock snorted. A honk issued from outside in the direction of the street.

Jaimey ran to the window. "Car's here!" he called and ran to the stairs. Mycroft had insistend on sending a car round to take them to Holmes Manor, where Reva Holmes was hosting her Gala. The older Holmes seemed determined to make sure his brother could not worm his way out of the party.

When they arrived at the sprawling manor, just to the north of London, Sherlock took John's hand and John took Jaimey's as a servant, hired specially for the occasion, opened the heavy camwood door onto a glittering magpie's nest. The front hall positively sparkled with light from a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the gems and metals worn by the guests. Their hostess detached from a group of twittering ladies that were gossiping like young starlings the moment she spotted them.

Reva threw open her arms in greeting and Jaimey nearly leapt into her arms. "Grand-mère!"

Reva hugged him tight. "Oh, Mon petit rayon de soleil!" she cooed before releasing him to hug John and then Sherlock. She held on just a little bit longer with her son. "Oh Sherlock, mon corbeau précoce. I have missed you." She sighed and pulled away to look at him. "You have been to long away my child." Sherlock looked suddenly ten years younger there in his mother's arms. "Promise not to make me worry like that again?" Reva asked with the same touching gentleness in her voice.

"Yes Mummy." Sherlock said, his voice somehow smaller and much, much younger.

Reva cupped her son's face in her hands and stroked his cheeks tenderly. Then, she turned to look at John. "I am so glad my darling boy has found himself such a courageux or chiot." He took John's hands in her own. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." John said without really knowing why she was thanking him.

Reva turned as the door opened again to admit Mycroft, Greg, and Mikhail. The elegant lady reached for her grandson first. "Ma petit arctique tourbillion, how are you?" She asked the small boy.

"Magnifique Grand-mère!" Mickey beamed up at her.

"And here is mon moineau incorrigible!" Reva exclaimed proudly as she seized her eldest boy in a tight hug. "And his précipitant renard argenté!" She cooed as Greg was treated to a patented Mummy Holmes hug as well.

Reva beamed as she looked at her children, their partners, and her grandchildren around her. "It is good to have the entire family home."

XXX

As the clocked ticked steadily on towards midnight, Sherlock attempted to keep himself entertained by trying to out deduce Mycroft on who of the nearby party-goers was having an affair, money troubles, had recently discovered some family scandal, was involved in some family scandal, or some other type of Soap Opera fodder. Jaimey and Mikhail had disappeared with their grandmother to charm, awe, and be generally fawned over by the ladies of Reva's bridge club. Jon and Greg listened to their darling geniuses before becoming utterly bored. They exchanged one look and each seized their lovers by the arm and hauled them onto the dance floor.

"You might be perfectly comfortable being a stick in the mud," John said in response to Sherlock's protests, "but I want to dance with you."

The shocked expression on Sherlock's face quickly melted into a smug smirk. John had just enough time to feel uneasy about that smile before they were moving. Sherlock had his left and resting firmly on John's hip and John's left hand clasped tightly in his left. John nearly tripped and reached for Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself.

They moved flawlessly with the music. Sherlock led because John had never had any real reason to dance like they were and once they began to move, Sherlock seemed to come into himself. John however became hyper-aware of the people that had paused in their movements to stare at the odd couple. He moved closer to Sherlock and mumbled, "Everyone's staring."

Sherlock looked at him with piercing silver eyes. "No one is staring John." He said in a soft, loving voice. But John was still glancing anxiously at the other guests. Sherlock sighed and pulled his doctor closer. "Look at me John." Sapphire met mercury as the doctor obliged. "Don't look at them. Just keep your eyes fixed on me." They'd slowed down, just swaying to the music.

John gulped. "You said the same thing on the roof." He choked out, barely above a whisper.

Sherlock pulled John into a hug and the shorter man buried his face in Sherlock's chest. "I know, but this time I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here with you."

John leaned up to peck Sherlock on the lips. "I know. And I am so happy. I love you Sherlock."

"I love you too John." Sherlock murmured and returned the kiss.

They swayed until the song ended then made their way back to the table.

James, Mikhail, and Reva had returned and had a large photo album spread out on the table. Sherlock groaned as they approached and John noticed Mycroft looked equally displeased. Greg however looked deeply amused, the reason for which became clear as soon as they sat down.

In a 5X8 full color glossy photo tucked safely behind a wall of cellophane and perfectly preserved was a five year old Sherlock and ten year old Mycroft wearing matching bee jumpers. John's hands flew to his mouth in an attempt to muffle his giggles and Sherlock exchanged a disgruntled look with his brother. "Who's idea was it to let her bring out he photo album?" he asked.

"Yours." Mycroft said with a pointed look at Jaimey.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair groaning, "James…"

"But Da, you and Uncle Mycroft were so cute as kids!"

Sherlock and Mycroft faces screwed up at that and Reva laughed. "Oh boys, do lighten up! Besides, it's true, no? My petits oiseaux were quite the charmers, just like their father." She turned the page. "Oh, look at this one! This was the day we all went to the beach and Sherlock found a nautilus shell. Do you remember that, Sherlock? You were so proud of that shell. I think it's still in your old room somewhere…" She trailed off as the large flat screen that was tuned to Sky News's broadcast of the ball dropping in London began to count down to the new year and everyone joined in.

…_10…_

Something nagged at Sherlock as he caught a glimpse of the photo his mother had talked about.

…_9…_

He pulled the album closer

…_8…_

The chubby faced child was hardly recognizable now.

…_7…_

He'd had freckles then too.

…_6…_

What was it about the picture though?

…_5…_

Eight year old Sherlock showed the camera a spiraled shell. There was nothing special about it.

…_4…_

Or was there?

…_3…_

Sherlock looked closer, examining the shell.

…_2…_

A perfect spiral. Now where had he seen one of those before?

…_1…_

In Mary's blood. Each spiral lined up perfectly with the nautilus shell!

_HAPPY NEW YEAR!_

"That's it!"

**Eheeheeheeheeeee cliffhanger!**

**That took way to long to write.**

**Fun Fact: Reva and Montgomery were my great-grandparents names.**

**R&R pwetty please my loves!**


	7. Chapter 6

**Disappearing Act 6**

**Argh! What is it with me and taking so damn long to write these chapters? I hope you guys don't hate me… IMPORTANT: GRAB A PIECE OF PAPER NOW BECAUSE I WANT YOU GUYS TO DECIPHER THE MESSAGE YOURSELVES! Please. It's not really all that hard. I give you the key and everything.**

**Sherlock Holmes and all related characters © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss**

Sherlock leapt to his feet, a wild, familiar gleam in his eyes. "Sherlock?" His mother tried, placing her hand on his arm. But he barely heard her.

Sherlock turned to John, excitement making him speak higher and faster. "John, I've figured out the message."

It took John a minute to realize what Sherlock was talking about. "You… you mean the one left with Mary?" he stuttered out. In truth, he'd rather forgotten about the message. Then again, with everything that had happened, can you blame him?

Sherlock nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Mycroft calling for a car. Of course he knew exactly what was going on, but Greg and Mickey were still panting to catch up. Jaimey however, had the look of excited rapture most children reserved for Santa. This was Santa for him; He was watching his two heroes, his dad and Sherlock Holmes, in action.

Mycroft put his phone away and nodded at his brother. Sherlock nodded back and grabbed John's hand. Scooping Jaimey up, he pecked his mother on the cheek, and in a fit of absentminded affection, pecked Mikhail as well. "I apologize mother but I'm afraid we'll have to cut this night short."

John kissed Reva as well. "I promise we'll visit again soon." He said, squeezing her hands.

Reva smiled sadly but nodded. She recognized that expression on her son's face, and the twin expression on John's made her heart soar. Her baby boy certainly had found himself a perfect match. Still, she missed her baby, "Of course ma chérie."

Sherlock and John nodded to Mycroft and Greg before departing and Jaimey waved over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock was out of the car and up the seventeen stairs to the flat before John and Jaimey had time to breath. By the time the Watson boys had stumbled through the door, Sherlock had the box of evidence out on the table and the photographs scattered over the scrubbed wood. The detective reached for each picture that showed the spirals, checking the description on the back before arranging them like they had been on that horrible evening. Sherlock pulled a white, felt-tipped parker and pencil from his pocket. On the back of one of the extra pictures he began the Fibonacci sequence. 1,1,2,3,5…

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. Sherlock blinked, snapping out of his Crimey-Wimey reverie. He looked up to meet John's worried gaze.

Sherlock stepped back to observe what he'd done so far and Jaime's head popped over the edge of the table. "These spirals." He reached for one of the pictures, "are perfect. Positively flawless because each of their spirals turns from the next at a ratio of 1.618 to the next."

"And the numbers?" John asked.

"One of the most famous uses for the Golden Number. It's called the Fibonacci sequence. The next number in the sequence is the previous two added together. But, take two numbers, say the ninth and tenth numbers, which are 55 and 89, divide them and you will get 1.618. Every time. With every two numbers."

"…Okay…" John said after a moment. "So what is your theory?"

"You see how the spirals are all the same design but that there is a different number of spirals?" John nodded. "If you count the number of spirals starting from the middle, you'll get a number in the sequence, which will correspond with a letter."

"So the first 25 numbers of the sequence correspond with the 25 letters of the alphabet?" John clarified and Sherlock nodded. "But the numbers will get into more than one digit. How do you tell them apart? I mean, you can't have a spiral that big."

Sherlock pulled an above-view photograph off the table and showed it to John. "It's hard to see, poor lighting imbeciles, but there is a minor gap between clusters of spirals. Larger gaps separate words."

John nodded understandingly, though he marveled at the ease and quickness that Sherlock's brilliant mind had discovered this. "So then what is the message?"

"Let's find out." Sherlock muttered and leaned down to finish his sequence, only to find it already done for him with every letter of the alphabet already write under their corresponding numbers.

Sherlock and John looked down at Jaimey, who was finishing the tail of his Z. He looked up when he felt their eyes on him. "Didn't I do it right?" he asked.

Sherlock looked down at the paper. The key, as Jaimey had written it, went as follows:

11 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233 377 610 987 1597 2584

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q

4181 6765 10946 17711 28657 46368 75025 121393 196418

R S T U V W X Y Z

Sherlock smiled and patted the small boy on the shoulder. "You did very well James. But how did you figure it out? I don't see any work."

"Well," Jaimey said after a moment, as if he was afraid he'd done it wrong. "I worked it out in my head. It wasn't that hard. Like you said, the last two equals the next one. Simple."

Sherlock knelt down beside the boy. "You are a brilliant kid, you know." Jaimey beamed.

"I'll make some tea." John said as Sherlock pulled the first picture towards himself, "I can already tell it is going to be a long night."

XXX

And it was. It was three a.m. before Jaimey nodded off against his father's shoulder, and dawn was creeping over the horizon before John managed to nudge Sherlock up the stairs, into his pajamas, and under the covers, "But John," Sherlock grumbled as John tucked him in, "The message is only a little deciphered. Besides, I'm not even tired."

"Too bad." John said as he slid in next to the genius. "I am and I refuse to leave you down there to our own devices. He last time I did that, you managed to work out a way to fake your own death." John sighed contentedly as Sherlock rolled over and cuddled close to him, resting the endearingly unruly mop of hair gingerly on John's injured shoulder. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a cuddler, shut up you think it's cute too.

"Have I apologized for that yet?" Sherlock murmured into the soft cloth of John's old army tee-shirt.

John smiled and closed his eyes before running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Many times Sherlock."

"It doesn't feel like it." Even sleep-befuddled as he was, John could hear the pout in the detective's voice. "I love you John." John felt Sherlock's head shift to rest his chin on his doctor's shoulder and he knew, even without looking himself that Sherlock would be staring up at him with that silver gaze. John opened his eyes and felt his smile grow and heart swell. He craned his neck just enough to brush his lips across Sherlock's forehead.

"I love you too, you mad, wonderful man."

**XXX**

The day after New Years, Jaimey started school. John and Sherlock both took Jaimey by cab and they met Mycroft, Greg, and Mikhail at the school entrance. Mickey promised to make sure Jaimey made it to his classroom before heading to the Secondary School. After hugging their parents goodbye, Mikhail took James's hand and were soon swallowed in the crowd. There followed a brief moment of lumps in throats and even the brothers didn't quip at each other. Then Sherlock made a joke about Mycroft's diet, eyes were rolled, Greg and John made plans to go for a pint the next day, and farewells were exchanged.

As they climbed into a cab, John could tell Sherlock was anxious to get back to Baker Street. This was a break in the case and Sherlock wanted to track it as fast as possible before the trail went cold. _Considering how long it's taken us to get this far, _John thought as they sped towards the flat, _it might already be cold._ So far on the message they had: 34, 8, 121393, space, 6765, 75025, 121393, space, 233, 11, 17711.

The beginning was worrying enough but they'd slept away most of the day before and John had ushered them both out for dinner at Angelo's. Sherlock had acted almost like a junky in need of a fix, but John ignored him and once they got home, Jaimey asked if they could do an experiment with his new chemistry set. Sherlock had agreed and, after a disdainful glance at the activities that came with Jaimey's kit and some suspicious scrounging around in his room, Sherlock produced a metal container of dry ice that he'd obtained from Molly for body parts. John had then, stupidly, left the room to go check the laundry down stairs. The resounding BANG! that had echoed around the flat shook the walls. John rushed up the stairs two at a time and he'd silently thanked every deity listening that Mrs. Hudson was at Bridge Club. That noise would have surely given her a heart attack. As he slid to a halt outside the kitchen, John had found the room, and his boys, covered in a clear liquid and smelling strongly of vinegar. A large plastic Tupperware lay sideways on the table and was steaming slightly.

"What the hell did you two do?" he'd shouted. Sherlock and Jaimey had glanced at each other before promptly busting out laughing. John threw up his hands in disgust and went to go get the cleaning supplies to leave with them, He was not cleaning up that mess. They did eventually clean up and John found out they'd decided it was a good idea to mix dry-ice, vinegar, and baking soda. He decided then and there not to ask and to never, ever leave them alone with chemicals and their sets again.

Now, as they stepped onto the sidewalk, Sherlock was positively shaking. He had the door openand was up the stairs and into his Mind Palace before John had finished paying the driver. John made tea and watched the message unfold:

34, 8, 121393, space, 6765, 75025, 121393, space, 233, 11, 17711, 4181, 55, 6765, 10946, 987, 610, space, 21, 11, 4181, 5, 8, 610, 6765, space, 2, 4181, 55, 75025, 10946, 987, 610, space, 6765, 987, 17711, 610, 5, space, 13, 11, 377, 55, 233, 55, 11, 4181? – 11, 46368

John and Sherlock stared at the message. "Oh, not again!"


	8. Chapter 7

**Disappearing Act 7**

**Molly might seem a bit OOC in this chapter, but I feel like she is a lot more feisty when she's not around Sherlock. And while she helped Sherlock with faking his death, she didn't hear very much from him after he left England. She got most of her information from Mycroft when he could be bothered to answer her calls.**

**Sherlock, John, Molly, and Greg (c) The Great Doyle, The Moff, and His Gatissness**

Sherlock fiddled with the phone in his hand, flipping it into the air and catching it automatically. He'd phoned Lestrade on it and now they were on their way to 3 Lauriston Gardens in Brixton to meet a team of forensics, thankfully not spearheaded by Anderson, with a warrant. There was just something so...unnervingly familiar about all this. He and John were on their way to the location of their first crime scene together, Sherlock was seated on the right and John on the left, and if his memory was serving him correctly, which it usually did, they were even in the same cab. Or at least a cab with the same number. But it was midday and not just after dark like it had been eleven years ago. Still, he was increasingly uneasy.

They pulled up outside the row of townhouses and Sherlock payed the driver. A matte black van with NSY FORENSICS painted on the side in yellow was already in front of number three. Lestrade himself was there with the warrant and arguing with what Sherlock saw was the landlord. After a few more choice words, Lestrade trotted over to them.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked as he drew nearer.

"No more than usual." Lestrade said as the three of them walked towards the front door. "Spent a good ten minutes whining about us not having probable cause, and then another twenty claiming no one had so much as looked at the house since Jennifer Wilson died there, but he gave up the key eventually." they reached the step and Greg made to unlock the door but Sherlock held up a hand. Placing one finger in the middle of the wood, and applying the gentlest of pressure, the door swung open.

"That's never a good sign." John muttered quietly.

Sherlock said nothing but crept silently into the front hall with his hand raised for silence. Then, taking the stairs two at a time, he raced up the three flights to where, nearly twelve years ago, Jennifer Wilson's body had been found. John and Greg followed close behind and nearly ran into the lanky detective where he stood immobile, in the doorway. They peered around him and Greg let out a strangled curse. "Bloody hell!"

There were body parts everywhere. _Everywhere._ Preserved in jars,Tupperware, plastic bags, even large clear plastic boxes, all filled with formaldehyde. They were stacked four tall and three deep along the walls and scattered at random through out the room, creating a maze of limbs.

"Nobody. Touch. Anything." Sherlock said, harshly. The forensics team had finally caught up behind them. " I want photographs of everything exactly where it is. Do not so much as nudge a jar. Just take the pictures and then get out." some of the younger team members looked indignant but one glare from their boss had their jaws snapping shut and their cameras being checked furiously.

Sherlock tapped his fingers and paced anxiously while the team "did their job." Sherlock preferred to call it making a mess. As soon as they were done, Sherlock was in and taking his own pictures on his phone, after sending them to his (read: John's) computer, he began noting the positions of every container and sending them to his Mind Palace. The whole thing took less than an hour.

"I need these all crated up and sent to Baker Street." Sherlock said to one of the techies, but before she could scurry off, John stepped in.

"Sherlock, we can't keep all these in the flat!" he said quietly.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

"One, we don't have room. And two, Jaimey cannot see these."

"You said body parts would be fine!"

"Your usual frozen toes in the crisper and heads in the breadbox, yes. But this," he shifted out of the way as two sergeants carried a decapitated and de-limbed torso out between them, "this looks like half of Bart's morgue."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue when Greg came back in from coordinating the loading. "Protocol says we have to send it all to Bart's anyway. I'm sure you can get Molly to let you have a peek." Sherlock nodded but John knew he was feeling frustrated.

XXX

Sherlock's eyes flicked from the laptop screen in front of him to the pickled remains that lay on steel tables all around him. He had all the pieces for this next puzzle, he just _didn't know where to start!_

Up in the observation balcony, Sherlock could see Molly and John discussing someone. He turned back to his work and pulled a foot floating in a jar forward.

Behind the thick glass, Molly and John were observing Sherlock, one with sentiment and the other with affection.

"I've missed his insane methods." Molly murmured with a grin.

"He's mad but he's wonderful." John agreed. They'd come rushing in fifteen minutes before-hand, Sherlock's coat fluttering like an absurd cape, and nearly scared Molly out of her wits. No one had done that in eleven years and she'd grown desensitised. They watched Sherlock in silence for a few more minutes before Molly turned to John again. "What has he said about-?" she began, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Oh god... Nothing Molly," John sighed and leaned heavily on the glass. "Because I haven't told him yet."

"Told him? But doesn't he already know?" Molly asked, glancing at the dark haired detective.

John shook his head. "I don't think so. He didn't even know how he was cleared, and now I think about it I have a feeling he didn't even know he _was_ cleared. I think he half expected to be arrested the moment we stepped into Scotland Yard. It's like he's been completely disconnected from the outside world for the past nine years. I mean, he was pretty disconnected anyway but it's like he didn't want to hear anything about his case. But that can't be right? I mean–Mycroft! Surely he would update Sherlock almost constantly right?" John knew he was babbling, but he needed to talk to someone about it. He'd planned to tell Greg that night, but Molly was right there, and she had asked. "And you can't ignore news. Can you? And he'd want to know when he could come back right?"

Molly opened her mouth, then hesitated, as if unsure whether to say something or not. She sighed quietly. "What if he never intended to come back?" she asked bluntly.

John reeled. "What? But-but he must have! I mean, he couldn't just-just leave," he wanted so desperately to say 'me' but refrained. "like that. Leave the world thinking he was a dead, cowardly fraud."

"I'm not saying he wanted to!" Molly amended hurriedly. "But he might have thought it was his only option. Just let everyone forget about him."

"How could he ever expect us to forget him?" John asked scathingly.

"Okay, maybe forget is the wrong word." Molly conceded. "But didn't he once tell you that he _wanted_ you to move on?" John nodded. "Maybe he didn't think he'd be able to ever come. A land he wanted goofy as quick and clean a break as as possible. And you know how–" She faltered, looking for the proper word to describe Sherlock.

"Anti-social? Introverted? Blind to normal human emotions?" John volunteered dryly.

Molly laughed at the apt descriptions. "Standoffish he can be. Perhaps it wasn't the most tactful way to do it, but Jim didn't leave him with many options."

John sighed and leaned his forehead against the cool glass and watched Sherlock examine a severed leg. "I guess you're right but then why did he come back?"

Molly smiled down at the mop-headed detective below them as she contemplated the question. "As much as he would argue about it, and as much as he doesn't want us to know, Sherlock Holmes is a noble man. When he heard about Mary's death, he worried about you. Worried this would hit you extra hard because of his departure."

John hesitated, thunderstruck by the notion. "When he first showed up on my doorstep, he promised he'd leave when the case was solved. Do you think he still will?"

Molly shook her head and smiled softly at him. "No John. You've given him a reason to stay."

Before John could do more than smile at her, his mobile rang. "Hello?"

"I need you both down here." Sherlock's voice sounded tinny through the small speakers. "Now."

**This was originally supposed to be longer, but there have been some personal issues. I'll try to get the next chapter out as fast as I can but my inspiration and drive has been kind of lagging...**

**R&R if you don't hate me!**


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